


Interview With the Valonqar

by catherineflowers



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Allusions to Sororicide, Blood Drinking, Blood Sharing, Epistolary, F/M, Human!Brienne, Human/Vampire Relationship, In a vampire-standard way, M/M, Mentions of Lannicest, NO rape, Non-Consensual Blood Drinking, Threats of Rape/Non-Con, Vampire Sex, Vampires, noncon elements, vampire!jaime
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-11
Updated: 2021-02-11
Packaged: 2021-03-17 18:01:20
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,460
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29354628
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/catherineflowers/pseuds/catherineflowers
Summary: Jaime comes to Harrenhal mortally wounded by Vargo Hoat. How will Roose Bolton keep the Red Wedding bargain afloat if Tywin's golden son dies from his injuries?Written for the Jaime x Brienne Smut Swap 2021, for CorinaLannister.
Relationships: Jaime Lannister/Brienne of Tarth, Roose Bolton/Jaime Lannister
Comments: 21
Kudos: 94
Collections: The Exchange that was Promised: Jaime x Brienne Smut Swap 2021





	Interview With the Valonqar

**Author's Note:**

  * For [CorinaLannister](https://archiveofourown.org/users/CorinaLannister/gifts).



> Written for the Jaime x Brienne Smut Swap 2021, for CorinaLannister.
> 
> She requested some Vampire!Jaime and Human!Brienne, with blood sharing and non-con elements. She did request that this would be during their journey to King's Landing, but the portion of the journey she suggested meant I couldn't write anything that wouldn't have been very similar to sameboots' [waiting to be consumed by you](https://archiveofourown.org/works/19808971/chapters/46901785). So I shifted events along a bit to Harrenhal. Hope that's okay!
> 
> Also many apologies for going over the word limit a teeny weeny bit. This is a BIG story and it was a BIG struggle to get it into 5k words!
> 
> CONTENT WARNING: This fic is about vampires, so contains some dark, blood-drinky, non-con stuff. It was my prompt and I will make no apologies for attempting to make my promptee happy. If this sort of subject matter won't make _you_ happy, please don't read it.

My dearest Cersei,

I write to you on the day of our birth because, in truth, I have been thinking of you.

We came into this world together, and for thirty-four years, I thought we shared everything of it—one soul in two bodies. I have not forgotten how we once believed we would die together, that it was the way of things.

I regret to inform you, sweet sister, that dying together won’t be possible any more. I, in fact, am already dead.

I can hear your laughter even as I write those words. I can hear your scathing put-downs, your ridiculing of the tale I am about to tell you. I know you will mock, and insult, and disbelieve every word of this, but I shall tell you anyway. Perhaps I owe it to you, or to myself, or to posterity or somesuch. It just feels like it needs to be done.

I came into this world holding your foot with my right hand, so perhaps we should start there – the loss of that very hand. It was removed from me on the orders of Vargo Hoat, who if you will recall was a Qohori sellsword Father hired to harass the Riverlands. By the time I encountered him, he had turned his cloak, yet he feared our Lord Father enough to send a message to him. Removing my sword hand was that message.

Some stubborn, foolish part of me would still like to believe that you would understand how losing my hand made me feel. That you would feel sympathy when I tell you that I have never known such terrible agony, that I was quite delirious from fever, that I vomited and shat myself in the aftermath and was anything but the golden warrior you once knew.

Of course, we both know that to be a lie, do we not, my Cersei? In truth, that thought disgusts you. You think me weak, pathetic. You could not love me unwhole, not as a brother, as a lover, not as a Lannister.

Once I died, so many things about you became so clear to me.

And I died so very hard, Cersei. Covered in mud and blood and stinking of my own shit and rotten flesh, I was brought to that most dread of castles, the soulless effigy to House Hoare’s hubris, Harrenhal.

What a place to die!

In truth, I remember little of my arrival there – it seemed but a twisted, skeletal thing on a grey horizon. But I was lost to the world, then, lost in pain, lost in despair, lost to a rambling fever that consumed the very bones of me. Hoat had tried to make me walk the last miles of our journey, so that he might better present me to his erstwhile master, but he hadn’t had a hope in all the hells.

Instead, he lashed me to the wench. Oh – I must digress. I have not yet mentioned Brienne of Tarth, and of course, you do not know her. Of course you don’t. Had you met, she would only have caught your attention as an object of ridicule. You would have had your fun of her and moved on without ever learning her name.

I know this because this is what I would have done, as well, had I not been tied to her as I died. Had I not been tied to her for near a week, sweating and writhing and moaning all day as I tried not to perish from pain alone.

Cersei, I had never known a woman’s touch aside from yours, and I had once thought your fingers the sweetest thing a man could feel. Ah, you do not know. You do not know until you die …

This wench, this warrior maid Brienne of Tarth, the sworn sword of Lady Catelyn, had been charged by her liege lady to exchange me for her daughters. So when I was taken by Hoat to Harrenhal, she was with me. Roped to me on the back of a horse, supporting me, stalwart where I was feeble. Her strength!

Where was I?

Ah, yes – my last day. The last time I felt the warming kiss of sunlight on my skin, I was in no fit state to appreciate it. Not when I was brought like a trophy into the melted courtyard of that terrible castle, not when I was burning with a fever as hot as Dornish summer. I am afraid I quite squandered my last sight of daylight.

It was then I met the erstwhile Lord of Harrenhal, Roose Bolton. I remember thinking what a strange man he seemed, even through my fever – he was so pale as to be colourless, his ashen eyes gleaming in the torchlight from the hood of his black cloak. His teeth were oddly … _pointed_ , too.

He took one look at me and reacted with a quiet sort of fury – clearly he was displeased at my treatment. Had I been more than moments from death, I would have reasoned that he was frightened of Father’s reaction, that he would be a hunted man if I died under his protection.

But, I cared not. I had a faceful of mud, and everything hurt.

Lord Bolton instructed his men to take me to his maester’s chamber. The wench watched me dragged there, unable to even lift my head for a last look at the sky. If only I had known! Her big, cow eyes betrayed her – still she thought she could protect me. Right then, I wanted her to, I truly did.

Bolton’s men dumped me on the maester’s bed – a sepulchurous old man leaned over me. He had the manner of a maester, though not the chain. He smelled of the grave, and his eyes came alive whenever I screamed. I screamed a lot – he poked at what remained of my wrist, at the black rot it had become.

It felt worse than wildfire, worse than you, Cersei. Worse than loving you had ever felt.

“Qyburn! Will he die?” asked Roose Bolton through my agony. His voice was soft. Soft, but cold.

“It’s full of corruption,” the old man replied. “He’s fevered. Quite delirious. I doubt he will pull through.”

Bolton cursed.

Oddly, I did not care so much about my impending death. An end to the pain seemed a welcome prospect at that point.

“Should I prepare a bird for Lord Tywin?” Qyburn suggested.

“No!” Bolton hissed. “This – this cannot –”

“Of course, my Lord.”

At that point, I passed out.

Time passed, I think, though there was no way to know how much. The maester’s chamber seemed underground, in the bowels of the castle, perhaps? There were no windows, and the room smelled of damp and decay: black earth, cold stone. For me, dear Cersei, there was pain and pain and pain. I think I was alone.

Bolton came back, presently. He had shucked the cloak; now he wore a suit of dark mail, black leather gloves, a polished silver shortsword. Qyburn was not with him, and somehow, the room seemed smaller still.

“I want you to know,” he said as he approached me, “that I do not want to do this. The very idea is repugnant. To bestow this gift on one so foul as you, _Kingslayer_.”

You cannot know, dear Cersei, the contempt with which he hissed that word.

“What _gift_?” I managed, though my voice was but a wheeze. I could feel the burning hand of the Stranger upon my brow. And yet …

Roose Bolton flew towards me. I could not describe it any other way, one moment he stood at the foot of the bed and the next, he was upon me, over me, pinning me against the mattress with his bony hand beneath my chin.

The candlelight flickered on his waxy skin, and his eyes! They were more than pale – they were almost white now, that same sick white as grave-maggots as they grow fat feasting on a corpse.

He smelled of nothing, and no warmth came from him at all. I wondered for a moment if this was the visage of the Stranger. How wrong I was, but ah – how right as well!

“What gift?” I asked again.

His reply was to shove my chin higher, pushing my head back so that my throat was elongated. Exposed. I felt him shudder against me and then …

He bit me.

I tried to cry out, but I was paralysed. In his thrall. I felt his teeth, I felt his breath, I felt his grasp. I was as limp as Renly’s cock on his wedding night.

You cannot understand, sister – again you would laugh at me, take me for a fool and a craven and a lover of men, but in that moment, I _wanted_ Roose Bolton. I cannot lie. His bite felt to me as desirable as a lover’s kiss, as astonishing as that first time you brought me to my pleasure in our childhood bed.

In that moment, all my pain went away. All my despair, all my anger, all my hatred. For the first time in my life, I felt free of myself. No longer a Lannister, no longer the Kingslayer. No longer your creature, Cersei. I was my blood, pumping into his mouth, I was my skin, shiver-shuddering at his touch. I was my heart, slowing, slowing, stopping.

He stood up with a pleasured gasp, his eyes closed in delight and his tongue licking the crimson of my blood from his long, delicate fangs. At that moment, I wanted nothing more than to pull him back to me, have him drink the rest of me, for my blood to be some part of him. As my senses returned, I arched and whimpered on the bed.

“Do you fear death?” he whispered to me. “That is what I am, and what you will be, as well.”

I could not speak, and I know not what I would have said if I had been able to. I watched, wide-eyed, as Bolton brought his own wrist to his lips. He peeled back the cuff of his glove and bit into his own pale flesh.

He showed me – a gaping wound that ran rivulets of dark blood. He pressed it to my lips before I could say a word. Gods! Gods … his blood was in my mouth, hot and sick and sweet and stupefying. It smothered me, it choked me. I gagged, I wept. Sucked it from him like a babe suckling from its mother’s teat.

And then, I died.

I died in his arms, Cersei. In the arms of a sworn enemy, a man who despised me. It was not the death I thought I’d have. It was not the death I thought we’d have together.

I thought that I would think of you, if I died without you. I did not.

I thought only of Roose Bolton. He filled me, filled my every sense. Drowned me. Strangled me.

“Tis only your body dying,” he whispered, lover-soft, into my ear as I writhed in his arms. “Pay it no heed.”

The world grew smaller, smaller. Smaller still. A pinprick of candlelight – the last of my thoughts. I was no more.

When I woke, everything had changed.

The walls crawled – moss grew, ants ran across them. I could hear their every footstep, hear their tiny hearts pumping inside them. I could hear the water in the earth below the room, I could hear the birds circling in the sky above the castle.

And in the castle, I could hear everything. Everyone. The whisper of their voices, the thud of their footsteps, the rush of the blood in their veins. Their blood. Oh, Cersei, their blood!

“Ah, you are awake,” a soft voice said. It was Qyburn.

I looked at him – found that I could see him well, despite the darkness of the room. I could see the veins in his neck, at his wrists.

I sat up on the bed. My pain had gone. I looked to my hand – or where my hand had once been. The black, rotted flesh had gone, leaving a clean stump.

“I am healed?” I asked him.

“You are. In a way.”

“How?”

“Ah, now that’s the question.” He had a gleam in his eye.

“And the answer?”

“You have joined the Brotherhood, my Lord. An ancient order of men, bound by blood.”

“I have never heard of them.”

“No, my Lord; they are most secretive. Within this castle, Lord Bolton has disclosed his affiliation to none but me. And now you, of course.”

“He bit me. Drank my blood.”

“And you drank his. So you died, and now you live again. Healed. Immortal. Unstoppable.”

“What!?” Ah, Cersei, there was so much I did not yet know.

“You will not age. You will not die. You are dead already, in a sense. Now, you are a creature of the night, a creature who must feed on blood to survive.”

“On … _blood_?” I knew this already; from the hunger in the pit of my stomach. “What – what has he done to me?”

“He saved your life, my Lord. Your father –”

“My father wished this?”

“Not at all, he knows nothing of it. But he and Lord Bolton have come to an understanding over the future of the King in the North. If you had died …”

“Then my father would –”

“Exactly.”

I will not bore you with more details of our conversation. Suffice to say, Cersei, that Roose Bolton had saved his neck by killing me. He feared our father so much that he would turn me into a monster before he would face Lord Tywin’s wrath.

I left the maester’s chamber feeling physically hale but still bewildered. I did not understand what any of this meant.

One thing I did know: the castle was alive with the sound of blood. That will seem such a strange thing to you, Cersei; you have never heard the thrum and pulse of blood that lies beneath the world. It is like second nature to me now. That night, it was odd and new.

Some blood, it seemed, called to me more than others. I suppose it is akin to having a preference for certain foods – some like strong spices, some enjoy mild flavours. But I have learned one thing calls us in the Brotherhood above all else – the blood of a maiden.

Now, newborn and hungry, I followed the scent of it through the castle halls like a starving man seeking bread. Harrenhal was presently a garrison, so there were no children, and only very few green squires who had not yet sampled the delights of a camp follower.

I knew who it was; I was no fool.

I found the wench bathing in the bowels of the castle, the room thick with steam and the scent of her maidenhood. She was clean and pink, but as ugly as ever. Sorry, sister, but I have never wanted anyone more.

I entered the bathhouse. Sent the guard away.

I didn’t hide, though I could have quite easily concealed myself in the shadows and the steam. I was so much lighter on my feet – all but a phantom. She would never have noticed me.

But I revealed myself to her – I’m not sure why. Some part of me that you would loathe had grown dependent on her, I think. Fond of her. Despite being my enemy, she had protected me. Cared for me at my worst.

She was shocked to see me. Just a few hours ago, I was knocking at the Stranger’s door, yet here I was, strong and whole and healed. Undressing myself as if we bathed together every day. I was pale, of course, the gold of my skin has quite disappeared beneath the pallid complexion of one of the Brotherhood. But I was not dying. Not slumped against her, moaning in pain as I had been for near a week.

“How?” she asked. “How are you –” Her eyes seemed glued to my stump, perfectly healed, less than four days from when my hand was severed from my wrist.

I did not answer.

I watched her from across the room as I undressed, my mouth watering. What was I going to do? Even I did not know. Every part of me wanted to spring across the room and sink my teeth into her thick white neck. Was this how Roose Bolton felt every day of his life? How did he ever resist it?

Brienne pulled herself against the corner of the bath. “Is this some kind of blood magic?” I remember her eyes darting from my stump to the door.

“Blood magic?” I laughed. The irony was almost as delicious as her.

“Answer me. You are healed, Ser. How?” Her heart pounded; I heard the wet squeeze of it in her chest. It made me shudder.

“Lord Bolton has a maester. A skilled man.”

“This is more than skill. This is …”

“Blood magic?” I approached the bath now, as naked as she was.

“I have seen blood magic at work with my own eyes. It is not a thing to mock.”

I stepped into the water and sank down to my chin. It felt warm and good, as a hot bath should. Some pleasures, it seemed, did not diminish after death. I groaned and lay my head against the side of the tub. When I opened my eyes, the wench still gaped at me.

Gods, she was so white. So many veins so very visible. The smell of her circulated with the steam.

“Tis not blood magic,” I sighed. I was reasonably confident of my answer – it had not seemed much like a magic ritual. Indeed, it had seemed more like Roose Bolton had bedded me _._

“Then what is it? I have seen blood magic –”

“Oh, be silent,” I entreated. “I’ve had enough of your prattle about how your precious Renly died.”

She took offence at that, of course – I had dared to raise the spectre of the man she’d loved. Can you believe it, Cersei? This poor creature had pined for years after your foolish fop of a goodbrother. She deserved better.

She sprang to her feet, flushed and indignant, suddenly quite unconcerned with modesty. The sight of her was too much for me, Cersei. The water running down her muscled flanks, the bounce of her little breasts and the flushed rose-pink of her nipples atop them … and the thick thatch on her sex.

I jumped at her.

I moved inhumanly fast, and gods, I was inhumanly strong. I burst from the water in a vicious pounce, clearing the tub in a single bound. Believe me when I tell you that Brienne is a big wench – she has half a head on me and she’s all thick fighter’s muscle – head to toe. But she may as well have been a skinny maid of six-and-ten against my power. She hit the floor in a wet, meaty slap of legs and back and arse, grunting as I fell atop her.

Gods, she was the most perfect thing I had ever seen – helpless beneath me, eyes wide like a cow before slaughter, her thick neck flushed and struggling and full of straining veins. I could have eaten every part of her.

She bucked beneath me, tried to throw me off, but I pinned both wrists above her head with my single hand. So hard her hands grew red with more delicious blood.

Gods, I was hungry. So hungry. And she would taste so very, very good.

“He … _bit_ you?” she blurted.

“What?” I froze, my mouth mere inches from her neck.

“Roose Bolton. Or someone else?”

Suddenly, I was horribly conscious that we were both naked. That the rigid length of my cock bored into Brienne’s belly. “Yes. He bit me. Drank my blood and forced me to drink his, too. When I woke up ...”

She did not say anything for the longest moment. I got off her, and she stood up, over me, her skin turning to gooseflesh as I watched her watch me.

Then, unfathomably, she walked closer to me. Now I was the one shrinking away – I was all but eye-level with her cunt.

“Let me see your teeth,” she said. She caught hold of my chin and lifted my face to inspect it in the torchlight.

“What?”

“Your teeth, Ser.”

“Why?”

“I know what he has done to you. Yes – I can see it on your face. Your pale skin, and your eyes … they change. They are losing their green, becoming mesmeric. You have not changed fully yet, but you will.”

“Changed into what?”

“A valonqar.”

“A what?!”

“A brother. I have seen this before – on Tarth.”

“A brother … yes. Roose Bolton said something about a Brotherhood.”

The wench nodded. “My father had one at court, quite unwittingly, a man who came over with a troupe of players from Braavos. We found people dead – servants, a stableboy. One of the horses too. Wounds at their necks, blood drained. One of my father’s guard found this man one night, sucking the blood from a … from a young noble maid. The girl was quite in the valonqar’s thrall – she begged the guards to allow him to continue.”

I remembered how I had felt while Roose Bolton had sucked my lifeblood away, the thrill of it. Much like Brienne’s young maid had felt, I suspected.

“My father had the man interrogated, and he confessed that it was a matter of survival. He needed to drink blood, or he would starve. He claimed that his proclivities made him immortal and that he was part of an ancient Brotherhood of such men who lived everywhere in the world. They call themselves the Valonqar – tis the High Valyrian word for a younger brother. They claim the Brotherhood was started by a creature who came from the stars – it seemed quite the ridiculous story, and my father did not believe it. He believed the man to be nothing more than a common murderer.”

Brienne looked down at her feet, her brow still furrowed, and her hands knotted before her.

“What – what happened to this man?” I asked her.

“He died,” Brienne said. I noticed that her eyes were quite wet. “Of starvation, in his cell beneath Evenfall, despite being fed more than adequately. Just not with blood.”

“Gods!”

“The gods had nothing to do with it. That poor man was cursed.”

I scoffed. “Bolton thinks it a gift. He was most put out at having to bestow it on one such as me.”

“It is no gift to make a man a monster.”

I must confess, Cersei, that the thought of becoming a monster held little sting for me. Right then, it left me little more than weary.

You will not have a care for this, I know, but had I not lived that way for years already, reviled as traitor, Kingslayer, and more recently as a man who lay with his sister? What difference did drinking blood truly make to one such as me?

“We have to find a way to help you,” Brienne said then.

“ _Help_ me?” That caught me quite by surprise.

I looked up to see her determined blue eyes staring down at me. “Perhaps there are maesters or learned men in Essos who know how this curse could be undone. Once we have fulfilled our oath to Lady Catelyn, perhaps we could take a ship across the Narrow Sea? Find someone who could help you.”

I scoffed. “We? _You_ would wish to help a monster?”

She lifted her square chin. “I would.”

“Why? You say I am not fully changed yet – and yet I threw you to the floor. Are you not afraid that I would –”

“Drink my potent maiden blood?”

“Yes.” I trembled as she spoke those words – the impulse was getting harder to resist.

“Perhaps I want you to,” she whispered. “Perhaps a part of me has never stopped wanting that again.”

“ _Again_?”

A ghost of a smile played on the wench’s thick lips. “I was the young noble maiden attacked by the valonqar at Evenfall. It was I who begged my father to allow him to continue drinking my blood.”

“You?”

“Such shock, Ser? Surely you have noticed that a maid need not have a pretty face for her blood to taste good to one such as you.”

“I – that is not –”

“Is that not why you came here? Why you snuck in from the shadows? Why you tackled me to the floor a moment ago? You wish to feed from me?”

“That is why you were not afraid.”

She lifted a heavy hand to her neck. Pushed her wet hair back. “I did not think I would ever feel such a thrill again. Here – take your fill from me, Ser. It will make you strong – strong enough to escape, perhaps.”

“No,” I said, much against my own will. “I did not save you from those rapers just to take your life myself.”

“Then, do not take my life. You are a knight, are you not, Ser Jaime? A warrior? You know where to strike someone to spill their lifeblood. Give me your oath you will avoid those veins, and you may feed from me.”

“And you would _trust_ the oath of a man like me?”

“A man who would risk his life to save an enemy from a raper? I would.”

She held out a hand to me; pulled me to my feet. I stepped close to her – it felt, oddly, like we were about to dance. This close, I could see it – the silvery scratch of scars on her neck, hidden between the freckles. I breathed on her neck right over the spot where that long-dead valonqar had bitten her. She trembled.

“I don’t know how to do this,” I whispered.

“Yes, you do,” she whispered back. She clutched at the back of my head and pulled me against her.

I knew. My teeth grew long at the scent of Brienne’s flesh, fangs like Lord Bolton’s. I opened my mouth and bit into her skin with a hiss. She was tough, all muscle, but gods, she was so sweet. Her blood tasted heady and exhilarating and made all the more flavoursome by the fact that she swooned in my arms.

Cersei, you would have laughed yourself stupid had you seen us. The maiden fainting in the knight’s embrace, only to overbalance both of us with her great weight.

We tumbled to the floor wrapped in each other, her groaning and grabbing at me, me suckling from her neck like an overgrown kitten sneaked back to its mother.

It was good, so good, better than the most delicate Arbor Gold, better than the finest feast ever served from the royal kitchens. She struggled a little, in protest or in thrill I do not know; nonetheless, I held her down. I could not stop – I was starving.

The flow slowed from that first wound, so I bit her again, a little higher, right where the soft gulk of her chin met her neck. She gasped and clung to me. I sucked again and bit again, this time on her cheek. The way her skin gave way to my fangs made me tremble – she was mine. She was _mine_.

I kissed her. Bit her tongue, bit her lip, bit her chin as well. Just nips, just hard enough to break the skin with my fangs, just a little. To draw a tease of blood.

I had no control, that first time. Looking back, I’m quite ashamed. No elegance, no finesse. Just the raw desire to bite, to taste, to have the wench and make her mine.

She was bruised from my ineptitude, and blood-streaked, too. Her wounds ran red rivulets into her hair, streaking her cheeks, pooling in the hollow of her collarbone. I dipped my tongue into that crimson treasure, soothed her lacerations even as my fangs made more.

She pulled my mouth to hers; licked her own blood from my tongue. Then dragged me to the other side of her neck, insistent. I bit her there. Drank from her again.

Our bodies writhed together on the flagstone floor. I found a sweet spot below her jaw that I could drink from, a lazy flow of blood just enough to slake my desperate thirst.

Somewhere in the middle of it all, I heard her gasp. Felt her shudder. I lifted my head and saw her eyes quite wide with wonder. She whispered my name.

I whispered hers in reply, and went back to her neck. Her blood tasted different, though. Still wonderful, just … not so rich, not so _consuming_. It was then that I came to my senses and realised ... I was _inside_ her. Somehow, I had slid my cock inside her, taken her maidenhead without even intending to.

Yet there I was, Cersei, wrapped in the wench’s sturdy thighs, engulfed by her sweet soft cunt. I all but cried. All I could do was kiss her, tell her that I loved her.

I did, Cersei. I do. I owe you the honesty of that. I have fallen in love with Brienne of Tarth, my warrior, my maiden, my protector.

We rocked together, hips against hips and lips against lips. My fangs, her tongue, a mounting beat of suck and thrust and kiss and struggle. Lost in the pulse of her beautiful heart – it was like I lived inside her now; in thrall to the flow of my wench’s blood.

I love her. I love her. I love her.

My climax came upon me first, so swept up was I in our lovemaking. There was no defying it, the joy of it, it was over before I could think to resist. It felt much the same as it always had before I died, though oddly, I did not spurt seed. The Valonqar, I have since learned, are quite barren.

I had shamed myself a little, it was true, but I’d like to think you know me well enough to know I did not stop. A series of bites marked a path down the wench’s belly, and I followed them again, a little suckle from each one.

I bit her cunt, as well. No doubt you are wincing as you read that, sister. No doubt you would have raked your nails across my face had I ever so much as breathed too hard on the Royal Cunt.

But let me reassure you: Brienne’s a warrior. She takes her wounds in battle and in bed.

You should know me. I was always tender, was I not? For every heartbeat I inflicted pain upon her, I gave her twenty more of love.

I bit. I sucked. I licked and I lapped. Blood and sex, life and death. Moans and moans and then a scream. Squashing my face between her thighs so hard I think a living man would die.

Ah, that’s my wench.

When we were sated, we lay together on the bathhouse floor. Brienne looked shattered. As though she’d held that in for years.

I felt strong. I felt powerful. Like I could rip the head off every man in Harrenhal.

Cersei, that’s exactly what I did. The wench and I, back-to-back … fighting our way out into the night. Gods, I killed and drank and drank and drank until I was as powerful as a god. Bolton did not come near. We got away, into the countryside, into the night.

So, sweet sister, please tell Father that I’m gone. His wedding plans for Lord Edmure, and Sansa Stark’s for our Joffrey have rather spoiled the oath the wench and I swore. So we’re headed around Essos, night by night. We’re going, if we can, to find a cure.

I’m writing to you on this, our nameday, for the love we once shared. But also as a warning, too. It’s begun to worry me. I know not how much of this tale has reached your ears in the capital, how much you have dismissed as fantasy or impossibility. But this I do know: you are a hateful, vengeful woman. Murderous, sadistic, foolish with it if you feel you have been slighted.

You see, I see so much more through the Valonqar’s eyes.

If you send someone for us, Cersei, if you send someone for Brienne, I will come for _you_.

I vow that you will wake to find a monster in your bed far worse than Robert. I will be there, and I will sink my fangs into your pale white throat and suck the life from you.

Your little brother,

Jaime

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks firstly to CorinaLannister for the very interesting and challenging prompt. 
> 
> Many thanks too to the people who helped me thrash this out and gave it a read-through before it was fit for human consumption. I will name you once anon is off!


End file.
